A/N: Haven't written a Hetalia fic for a while now, so I decided to write this on a whim. ^_^

I felt like it was time to revisit one of my fave pairings - RusPrus. I hope you like it as much as I liked writing it.

It was snowing.

It wasn't a harsh and freezing blizzard. Each little snowflake that fell to the earth was special, so soft and so pretty. The land was covered in a blanket of pretty and gentle snow. It seemed to calm, so pleasant. It was just like a snow scene out of a story book, where children would run through and have snowball fights, go sledding, build snowmen, and make snow angels. It was so peaceful and welcoming. Russia didn't like it.

He leaned against one of the surrounding trees. He was completely alone. No soldiers, no leaders, no one. It was just him, his pipe, a bottle of vodka, and the snow. He had no food, no shelter. He wouldn't be here long, anyhow. He just needed to get away.

He didn't like the gentle snowfall. He wanted the harsh blizzard and beating winds that General Winter usually brought to him. Why was that the one time he actually wanted him here, he didn't come? He sighed and took another sip of his vodka. It was so soothing to his throat and his mind. He looked up into the white clouds, snowflakes brushing and landing on his face. The snow was cold as it always was, but it was a completely gentle fall. He sighed again and brushed the snow off, only to be covered in white again.

Russia coughed. He was getting sicker each day, but he hardly ever showed it. He seemed to be suffering more so than his enemy, which irritated him in a sense. Why was his cold any worse than America's? Their nations were both equally suffering, weren't they; should they have been equally sick? It did not seem that way.

He heard a crunch in the snow to the right of him. His thoughts stopped and he looked over, only to see the ex-nation staring at him, his pistol at hand. Russia smiled a bit. "Aren't you supposed to be going home?" he asked softly before coughing. "The World Meeting has been over for quite a while."

Prussia glared, ignoring the given question. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"It wasn't any of your business," he said simply. "You no longer live in my house and what happens to me shouldn't matter to you." Then he cocked his head to the side and blinked. "How'd you know I was here?"

"Belarus told me." Prussia stepped up to him, freezing a bit when he got a good look at how sick the larger nation was. "Shit, Ivan – you look horrible!" He roughly seized his arm and pulled him away from the tree. "Come on. You need to go home."

"No," Russia growled. He pushed away from the albino and went back to resting against the tree. "I don't want to go home. It's lonely there. Everyone has left. It's only me now. I don't want to go… It's so cold… and lonely…"

The smaller nation rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because out here in the snow is so much warmer with more company." He grabbed him by the arm and yanked him away. "Now come on. I'm taking you home before you freeze to death."

The larger nation just stared at the man as they walked back to his house, surprised that the Prussian was even here. Ever since he had left his house after the wall had come down, he hadn't seen the ex-nation since with the exception of World Meetings. He had missed him so much, been loving him for so long even though Prussia hated him, cursed him for what he did to him. Well, who wouldn't after the pain Russia had put him through? Still, it had been done in order to keep him by his side, bind him tightly to him so that he couldn't escape.

He watched the man as they walked as his hair seemed to absorb the snow when it fell down onto the white locks. It made his hair seem to shine more as the flakes gently beat down on him. His bright red eyes stood out so much in the snow, just like his pink lips did. Russia didn't even realize he was looking at them until Prussia had finally turned to him, making a face when he saw that he was being stared at. "Quit looking at me, you damn commie."

Russia just gave a small smile. "I can't help it… You're so pretty." He leaned in quickly and pecked the sweet pale cheek.

Prussia's froze as his cheeks burned brightly before glaring at the Soviet in anger and punching him hard in the face with a clenched fist. Russia fell hard on the ground, blood coming from his bottom lip. He rubbed his lip as it stung, blood trickling down into the snow and staining it red. He looked up at Prussia, who just glared at him furiously.

"Damn it…!" the Prussian hissed. "You always…! Shit – I hate you so much! I'm just trying to help you and you get all weird and perverted on me!"

Russia sighed. "If you hate me, then don't help me. I released you back to Germany a year ago. You no longer have anything to do with the Soviet Union or me. Go home, Gilbert… This isn't your home anymore."

Prussia just stared at him in shock, obviously shocked by his words. Russia noticed and shook his head, standing up and wiping the blood away from his lip. When the smaller nation still didn't move, he walked past him, burying his hands in his coat's pockets and leaving him in the cold.

Then, in a voice so hurt and so cold – almost as cold as the snow – yelled out, "It may not be my home anymore, but it was!"

Russia stopped in his steps and turned around to face him, his lavender eyes wide with shock. Prussia had turned around and faced the Russian, his cheeks burning with anger and his eyes on the verge of leaking out tears. "Gilbert…"

"It was my home! I used to live there – with you! Everything…! I remember everything…! All of those precious memories…! Good…! Bad…! I remember it all, damn it and no matter what, it was my home! It has everything to do with me!" He stormed up to the Russian and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him down to eye level and hissing, "No matter when you let me go back to West…! Your house had been my house…! And I have so many memories! Fuck it – I have memories with you!"

Then in an angry burst of emotion, Prussia slammed his lips against the Russian's, whose eyes went even wider than they were before. Prussia was kissing him. The nation that had said he hated him so much was actually kissing him, his tongue sliding into his mouth. Russia finally responded and kissed back, intertwining their tongues and tasting each other's sweet, cold cavities, his hands coming out of his pockets and his arms snaking around the Prussian possessively, never wanting to let this self-proclaimed "free-bird" go.

Russia didn't know how long this kiss would last, so he kept it up as long as he could. He wasn't sure if it was a fluke or not, but either way, the albino he loved was kissing him in his country of a blanket of white that had been stained so many times by the blood of millions. How many had died in his country? Whose blood – both enemy and native – had stained his soils? How many times had he and Prussia fought in the snow, painting the white flakes red with each other's blood?

Yet, those thoughts just seemed to melt away as they continued to kiss, the snow seemed to engulfed them and block others from viewing them and intruding on them, making them always remember each other's existence and how it affected them for better or worse. It was just like the white field they stood on, a blanket of both bad and good memories – filled with both their love, their hate, and their blood.